Hands
by MsRenai21
Summary: Jean always took hands for granted.


**Hands**

I always took hands for granted.

Everyone has them and they all do the same thing. So what's even the appeal of them?

They work and work, getting cut, getting rough and calloused. It's hard to find nice, soft hands around here, unless you're exceptionally rich. Although, all the rich folk live in the inner walls. Everyone here works and they work hard, whether it's farming, building, washing dishes, or cleaning.

Their hands were always busy.

My hands were always either covered in dirt or covered in ink. Sometimes I'd use my hands to hurt and fight. I'd come home with them bloody and bruised and my mother would always hurry to clean them up.

Mama's hands were the softest ones I had felt in my childhood. They were petite and had their imperfections but they held me close and comforted me.

Soon, however, I left the comfort and safety of her home for the military training. The safety had long since vanished when the walls were breached two years prior to my departure. I just wanted to work hard and get myself and my mother happy and secure. It looked like it was time to put my hands to some use after all.

It was then when I saw different kinds of hands. Small hands, wide, dark and light. Some clenched with blind passion and some clenched in shaking fear.

However, that's where I met someone. Someone who would one day change me in the most drastic way. His hands stood out the most to me. They were long, slender, and tanned. Freckles dotted across his fingers and knuckles sporadically and I would always get lost in trying to make patterns. They were rough, as to be expected, and I learned sometime later that he was an innocent farm boy with dreams of joining the military police.

More importantly, they were warm. It was the first time I ever felt a reason to pay attention to my hands because I never wanted to let go of his. My hands were always cold and clammy, yet he'd hold them without any hesitation.

We got close. So close that, whenever he started to feel fear or feel inadequate, I'd reach for him without thinking. Someone with such a loving personality and a warm, caring touch needed to be reassured, and I wanted to return the favor for all the times he held my hand.

And yet…

…I took them for granted.

Before I knew it, he was gone. The warmth from his body was replaced with the horrifying sorrow of death. No one saw it; no one was with him. He was missing half of him and no one saw it but…something stuck out to me. He was missing one hand, yes, but the other was folded over the remainder of his chest so neatly.

How in the world did that even happen?

I was perplexed; I was distraught. I couldn't think straight for while. Hours? Days? I don't quite remember, to be honest. My body was numb; _my hands were numb_. I think, I think snapped out of it as the smell of burning, decaying flesh filled my nose. It was disgusting, but had a hint of sweetness. What a cruel mixture it was.

As I watched him burn, I picked up whatever I could of him, any last bit. Some charred bones were all I had left and I cradled it in my hand. He changed me so much. The three years we had together ended so abruptly and I was craving his warm touch.

But I'd never have it again.

So I swore to myself that I'll use my hands to actually do something. I won't be afraid to get them dirty or bloody anymore. I'll do all I can to prevent this from happening to someone else.

I'll hold onto the ashes no matter how hard I cry. I'll kiss my hand for luck on each mission. I'll proudly salute, hand over heart, and offer my life to stopping something bad like this from ever happening again.

It took awhile.

So much happened in such a short span of a few months but we're in even more danger than before. I'm a soldier who promised to give their life for humanity, yet our biggest enemy _is_ humanity.

I almost lost my way a few times, I almost got myself killed because my hands hesitated and because of that, I soiled the hands of my friend. Soiled them with blood. I was weak just as I always had been.

I steadied my shaking, fearful hands and did what I had to. I had no choice, it was either them or me. I'm not done here, I still have to fulfill my promise, I still have some use in this world.

My hands eventually found their way to the grasp of another. The one whose face would always be the target of my fists and whose blood would cover my knuckles in our training days. His hands were incredibly rough, but warm. It almost reminded me of…

I'll protect them and I _swear_ , I will never take them for granted.


End file.
